MGTRAVAtL 
OFA 
S  Q  U'L 

G.6ORG6.  F.  BCJTLj£R 


JOHN 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

PRESENTED  TO  THE 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

ROBERT  GORDON  SPROUL,  PRESIDENT. 
<8>    BY"  ^ 

MR.ANDMRS.MILTON  S.RAY 
CECILY,  VIRGINIA  AND  ROSALYN  RAY 

AND  THE 

RAY  OIL  BURNER  CDMPANY 


SAN  FRANCISCO 
NEW  YORK. 


THIS    EDITION    OF   "THE    TRAVAIL    OF   A    SOUL", 
BY   GEORGE   F.   BUTLER,   IS   LIMITED  TO  TWO   HUN- 
DRED COPIES,  OF  WHICH  THIS  IS  NUMBER/X^  THE 
RALPH  FLETCHER  SEYMOUR  CO.,  PUBLISHERS. 
CHICAGO  MCMXIV 


THE  TRAVAIL 
OF  A  SOUL 


TH  €  TR  AVAl  L 

OFA 

SOUL 


CHICAGO 
RALPH  FL€TCHGR  SeVMOGR  CO 


COPYRIGHT,    1914,    BY    GEORGE    F.    BUTLER 


Dedicated  to  the 
Votary  of  Exalted  Love 


THeveNClSOFMeLOS 


HERE  fell  a  vision  to  Praxiteles 
Watching  through  drowsy  lids  the  loitering 

seas 

That  lay  caressing  with  white  arms  of  foam 
The  sleeping  marge  of  his  Ionian  home: 
He  saw  great  Aphrodite  standing  near 
Expressing  all  the  beauty  he  had  sought 
With  life-long  passion,  and  in  love  and  fear 
In  Para's  marble  he  the  vision  wrought. 

Far  other  was  the  form  that  Cnidos  gave 

To  senile  Rome,  no  longer  free  nor  brave, — 

The  Medicean,  naked  like  a  slave. 

The  Cnidians  built  her  shrine 

Of  creamy  ivory  fine. 

Most  costly  was  the  floor 

Of  scented  cedar,  and  from  door 

Was  looped  to  carvern  door 

Rich  stuff  of  Syrian  purple,  in  whose  shade 

Her  glistening  shoulders  and  round  limbs  outshone 

Milk-white,  as  lilies  'neath  a  summer  moon. 

Here  honey-hearted  Greece  to  worship  came, 

High  on  her  altar  leaped  the  turbid  flame, 

The  quickened  blood  ran  dancing  to  its  doom 

And  lip  sought  trembling  lip  in  that  rich  gloom. 

The  islanders  of  Cos,  by  the  Aegean 
From  Persia's  fetid  touch  still  keeping  clean, 
Chose  Jor  their  holier  shrine  amid  the  seas 
That  grander  vision  of  Praxiteles. 
Long  ages  after,  sunken  in  the  ground 


Venus  Of  wave-girt  Melos,  wondering  shepherds  found 
The  marred  and  dinted  statue  which  men  name 
Venus  de  Milo,  saved  to  endless  fame. 

Before  the  sacred  marble,  on  a  day 

There  came  a  worshiper.     A  slanted  ray 

Struck  in  across  the  dimness  of  her  shrine 

And  touched  her  face  as  to  a  smile  divine — 

For  beauty  was  the  worship  of  the  Greek. 

At  her  loved  altar  thus  I  heard  him  speak: 

Men  call  thee  Love.     Is  there  no  holier  name 

Than  thine,  0  foam-born,  laughter-loving  dame? 

All  words  that  pass  the  lips  of  mortal  men 

With  inner  and  with  outer  meaning  shine — 

An  outer  gleam  that  meets  the  vulgar  ken, 

An  inner  light  that  but  the  few  divine. 

Thou  art  the  Love  Celestial,  seeking  still 

The  soul  beneath  the  form;  the  serene  will; 

The  wisdom  of  whose  deeps  the  sages  dream; 

The  gorgeous  beauty  that  doth  brightly  gleam 

In  stars,  and  flowers,  and  waters  where  they  roll 

Make  whosoever  sees  a  homesick  soul. 

Larger  than  mortal  woman  dost  thou  stand 

In  rapt  attention  bending  gracefully, 

As  if  those  earnest-lighted  eyes  could  see 

Some  glorious  thing  far  off,  to  which  thy  hand 

Invisibly  stretched  outward  seems  to  be. 

From  thy  white  forehead's  breadth  of  calm,  the  hair 

Sweeps  lightly,  as  a  cloud  in  sunny  air. 

Thy  brow  is  curved  as  that  still  line  at  dawn 

When  the  last  stars  drown  in  unfathomed  skies. 

Thy  mouth  so  sweet;  is  it  a  smile  that  dies 

Or  mild  compassion  which  to  weep  now  tries? 

Little  as  one  may  tell,  some  summer  morn, 

Whether  the  dreamy  brightness  is  most  glad, 

Or  melancholic  ally  sad. 

Thy  ample  waist  no  narrowing  girdle  holds; 

Thy  garment's  fallen  folds 

Leave  bare  thy  fair  round  breast 

8 


In  charming  loveliness  and  graceful  rest.  Venus 

Around  thy  firm  limb-curves  and  gentle  feet 

The  robes  slope  downward  as  'round  flowering  hills 

Diaphanous  gauze  flows  free  when  shadow  fills 

7  he  hollow  canons,  and  the  wind  is  sweet 

From  amber  oatfields,  and  the  ripening  wheat. 

I  bow  amazed  before  thy  noble  lines. 

How  pure  thy  beauty  in  the  marble  shines, 

How  different  from  the  Cnidean  grace 

Is  the  immortal  glory  of  thy  face! 

One  is  the  spirit  of  all  short-lived  love 

And  outward,  earthly  loveliness. 

The  crimson  morn  of  lust  is  in  her  smile. 

Wild  sensuality  reigns  in  her  grove 

And  always  coveting  mans  warm  caress 

She  offers  keenly  her  white  hill-slopes,  the  while 

Her  thrilling  voice  is  heard 

In  song  of  wind  and  wave,  and  every  flitting  bird. 

When  if  across  the  parching  plain 

Man  sees  her,  she  with  passion  burns 

His  heart  to  fever,  and  he  hears 

The  west  winds  mocking  laughter  when  he  turns 

Shivering  in  mist  of  ocean  s  sullen  tears. 

It  is  the  Medicean.     In  her  lust 

Is  burning  heat  and  blighting  frost. 

Woe  to  the  man  who  feels  her  breath, 

Her  love  is  curse,  her  kiss  is  death. 

Thou  too,  0  Melos'  daughter,  walkest  here 

Upon  the  lifted  hills: 

Wherever  thy  still  grace  within  the  breast 

The  inner  beauty  of  the  world  has  moved, 

Wherever  men  through  thee  have  loved — 

In  starlight  that  the  dome  of  evening  fills, 

On  endless  waters  sounding  to  the  west — 

They  won  the  brightest  and  the  best. 

Because  thou  leadst  from  what  is  real 

Up  to  thy  higher  world  ideal. 

Oh,  I  adore  thee!     Through  the  purple  dawn 

9 


Venus       Staring  against  the  dark  I  see  the  space 
Opening  immeasurably,  and  thy  face 
Waving  and  glimmering  and  soon  withdrawn. 
And  many  days  when  all  one's  work  is  vain, 
And  life  goes  stretching  on,  a  waste  grey  plain, 
With  e'en  the  short  mirage  of  morning  gone, 
No  cool  breath  anywhere,  no  shadow  nigh 
Where  weary  man  might  lie  still  down  and  die, 
Lo,  thou  art  there  before  me  suddenly, 
With  shade  as  if  a  summer  cloud  should  pass, 
And  spray  of  fountains,  freshning  to  the  grass. 
Oh  save  me  from  wild  passion  s  heat 
Which  drives  my  heart  to  feverish  beat. 
Save  from  that  Medicean  dame 
Whose  love-embrace  is  ardent  flame, 
Who  fascinates  with  serpent's  glances 
The  trembling  victim  of  her  fancies. 
Now,  even  now  she  smiling  stands 
Close,  as  I  turn,  with  outstretched  hands. 
She  keeps  me  back.     I'm  seized.     I'm  caught, 
She  has  my  heart,  she  has  my  thought, 
I  feel  her  lips  on  my  lips  burn, 
'  Yes,  Medicean,  I'll  return — 
With  fervour  like  the  pagan  gods 
I  come  to  kiss  thy  rosy  buds, 
Absorbing  with  delight  thy  breath 
Though  knowing  that  thy  kiss  is  death' 
Melos,  thou  stand' st  too  high  for  me, 
Thine  eyes  look  too  ideally 
Away  from  earth  to  heights  above. 
I  cannot  grasp  thy  nobler  love; 
The  transcendental  thoughts  and  dreams 
Thy  lucid  eye  around  thee  beams, 
I  cannot  seize  them  as  I  seize 
The  lustful  goddess  Medices. 
Through  her  my  thought  goes  unto  thee, 
In  half-divided  harmony. 
Hers  is  my  earthly  heart,  to  thee  above 

10 


Will  ever  rise  my  soul's  delightful  love.  Venus 

Then  I'll  not  say  farewell.     What  would  earth  be        of 

Without  thy  presence?     Surely  unto  me 

A  life-long  weariness,  a  dull,  bad  dream. 

Abide  with  me  and  let  thy  calm  eyes  beam 

Fresh  hope  upon  me  every  amber  dawn, 

New  peace  when  evening  s  violet  veil  is  drawn. 

Then,  though  I  see  along  the  glooming  plain 

The  Mediceans  waving  hand  again, 

And  white  feet  glimmering  in  the  harvest  field, 

I  shall  not  turn  nor  yield; 

But  as  heaven  deepens  and  the  Cross  and  Lyre 

Lift  up  their  stars  beneath  the  Northern  Crown, 

Unto  the  yearnings  of  the  world's  desire 

I  shall  beware  of  answer  coming  down; 

And  something,  when  my  heart  the  darkness  stills. 

Shall  tell  me,  without  sound  or  any  sight. 

That  other  footsteps  are  upon  the  hills, 

Till  the  dim  earth  is  luminous  with  the  light 

Of  the  white  dawn  from  some  far  hidden  shore, 

That  shines  upon  thy  forehead  evermore. 


11 


INTRODUCTION 


light,  ineffable,  mantles  thy  glorious 
form.  Thou  art  like  an  emanation  of  some 
bright  morning  thought,  some  kindling 
dream  by  fancy  woven  into  the  coarser 
threads  of  daily  existence,  and  so  shot  o'er 
the  colorless  fabric  of  earthly  experience  that  care  and 
sorrow  are  made  tribute  to  the  majesty  of  thy  serene 
beauty,  and  doubt  and  tears  abide  not  in  thy  magic 
presence.  Wert  thou,  then,  sweet  Aphrodite,  moulded 
indeed  by  the  hand  of  man?  Was  ever  in  Arcady  a  form 
so  spotless  fair,  a  smile  so  radiant  or  lips  so  divinely 
tender?  Could  the  blue  Aegean  fashion  thee  in  this 
imperial  loveliness  as  fable  says,  or  imprint  of  Jove's 
finger  call  thee  into  being?  No,  no;  only  the  heart 
and  brain  of  man  hath  shaped  from  dull  clay  the 
Beautiful  expressed  in  thee.  Only  the  tremulous 
outpouring  of  a  human  soul  could  have  so  wrought 
the  transcendent  image  of  mortal  love  and  aspira- 
tion; a  witness  unto  the  ages  of  the  truth  and  power 
of  Love.  Not  fire  nor  sword,  not  vengeance  nor 
despair,  is  embodied  in  thee,  but  that  supreme 
emotion  whence  issues  all  that  most  dignifies  and 
sweetens  life,  the  dream  within  the  dream,  all  beauty 
of  material  insight  permeated  by  the  living  miracle 
of  Love.  Thou  art  of  earth  we  know.  Faint  sem- 
blances of  thy  perfection  we  have  looked  upon,  and 
in  our  thoughts  the  hope  doth  linger  that  thy  form 
is  but  a  happy  antitype  of  some  breathing  image 
dwelling  upon  that  sacred  Melian  shore.  Yet  some- 
thing awes  us  as  we  gaze  on  thee  and  whispers  that  a 
seraph  from  heaven  once  hovered  o'er  thy  creator  and 
guided  his  unconscious  hand. 


TH€  TRAVAIL  OF  A  SOUL 


The 
Travail 
of  a 

Soul 


HIS  sorrow  makes  me  pure,  for  grief  doth  fold 
All  thoughts  in  its  dark  mantle.    Even  the  fires 
That  kindled  in  me  passionate  desires 
No  more  my  heart  in  anxious  thraldom  hold. 
And  with  this  secret  pain  I  must  grow  old : 
"That  my  sweet  hopes  must  mount  fate's  lurid  pyres, 
And  other  fingers  sweep  love's  sacred  lyres 
While  in  my  soul  the  breath  divine  is  cold. " 

O  Mother  Earth,  whose  bosom  still  is  warm, 

Take  thou  thy  child  ere  time  shall  bid  him  weep 
O'er  memory's  sad  heritage!    Inform 

With  light  of  the  new  life  the  hours  I  keep 
As  but  a  withered  garland  kissed  with  tears, 
The  ashes  left  from  dreams  of  happier  years. 


16 


'EAUTIFUL  IMAGE — which,  looking  on,  none 
need  name,  since  every  feature  glows  with  Travail 
sacred  love  and  speaks  ere  we  have  time  to  of  a 
question  thy  message  unto  men — how  since  my 
youth  have  I  beheld  thy  wondrous  beauty  and 
in  imagination  longed  to  dwell  forever  in  the  radiance  of  thy 
chaste  loveliness!  Here  in  this  attic-chapel,  whither  I 
have  crept  to  rest  a  while  from  labor  and  from  men,  thou 
art  at  length  enshrined  before  my  tired  eyes,  and  as  I  gaze 
enraptured  upon  the  overmastering  light  and  power  and 
grace  that  so  haunt  thee,  upon  the  very  spirit  of  the  Beau- 
tiful which  lights  thy  glorious  form,  touches  with  infinite 
charm  thy  purely  noble  contours,  and  mantles  in  thy  face 
divine,  all  of  earth  that  bound  my  bleeding  heart  is  folded 
away  as  by  a  curtain  of  sunset  splendor.  Thou  canst  not 
speak  to  me,  my  Aphrodite?  Not  one  sweet  word  to 
answer  all  my  kisses?  Then  let  thy  mute  protection  be 
my  amulet,  which  I  will  wear  in  secret  among  men,  and 
they  shall  not  know  why  my  life  seems  gentler  and  more 
thoughtful,  nor  why  I  smile  when  sorrows  thicken  and  the 
long,  long  pilgrimage  is  lonelier,  ghastlier  still.  Each 
hidden  pang  shall  be  assuaged  by  memories  of  thee  and  of 
thy  brooding,  patient  benediction,  which  every  morning 
welcomes  and  delights,  which  sends  me  forth  to  daily  toil 
in  pity  and  vast  love,  and  in  the  solemn  evening  hours 
transforms  this  lowly  habitation  into  the  dwelling  place  of 
God. 

Comfort  me,  O  my  Venus,  my  Aphrodite ! 
Look  on  my  woe  with  thy  divine  compassion 
And  by  thy  beauty  heal  this  tender  heartbreak 
Ere  death  shall  call  me. 

Speak  to  me,  O  my  Eidolon,  my  Aphrodite! 
Lo,  my  heart  is  sere  with  hopeless  passion, 
Thou  only  canst  revive  its  faded  embers, 
My  Aphrodite. 


17 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


HY  image  haunts  me.    I  cannot  forget 
Thy  brave,  true  nature  and  thy  quiet  grace. 
Oh,  since  that  summer  day  when  first  we  met 
My  memory  reflects  thy  radiant  face. 
I  fain  would  breathe  to  thee  this  longing  prayer; 
"That  hand  in  hand  together  we  might  rove 
The  happy  woodlands,  finding  everywhere 
In  light  and  shade  the  flower  of  perfect  love." 

But  this  relentless  Fate  that  follows  close 

Upon  my  dreams — how  can  I  trust  her  now? 
Or  know  that  when  I  ask  of  thee  a  rose, 

Thou  wouldst  not  but  the  thorn  on  me  bestow  ? 
So  leaving  e'er  these  tender  thoughts  unsaid 
I  only  wish  that  I  were  lying  dead. 


18 


[MID  a  thousand  hearts  I  wandered,  seen  and  yet 
unseen,  perchance  to  gather  some  respite  of  pain      Travail 
from  their  joy,  some  glad  consciousness  of  human      of  a 
Wt  ^l^tf^  feeling  that  should  transfigure  the  shadow  of  my      Soul 

solitude.  These  at  least  were  my  countrymen, 
and  in  their  careless  pleasure  might  I  not  find  the 
Lethe  I  sought  so  long  in  vain?  But  still  my  Beautiful 
One,  I  return  to  thee  alone.  Here  during  the  summer  day 
hast  thou  stood  charming  the  silences;  here  thy  smile 
awaits  thy  recreant  lover,  beaming  as  of  old  when  thou 
didst  thrill  my  boyish  fancy  with  unutterable  longings  for 
the  True,  the  Beautiful  and  the  Good.  Did  I  then  forget 
thee  in  these  wayward  hours  ?  Ah,  no.  Even  in  the  crowd 
I  longed  to  return  to  thee  and  thy  calm  radiance,  to  look 
again  with  tears  of  quiet  rapture  on  thy  features,  and  feel 
within  my  heart  the  subtle  spell  thy  beauty  doth  instil. 
Thine  arms  are  here  no  more — yet  they  are  tenderly  laid 
about  earth's  children,  and  in  their  soft  embrace  we  cannot 
mourn  thy  mutilation,  but  rather  draw  nearer  to  thy 
divine  face  in  which  there  shines  a  spiritual  loveliness  and 
nobility,  as  if  fate  had  crowned  thee  with  thy  loss.  O 
beautiful,  my  Aphrodite,  canst  thou  not  by  the  power  of 
thy  vast  loss  uplift  me  ever  from  the  abyss  of  sorrow  and 
despair?  Shall  I  not  know  that  every  thought  is  chastened 
by  thy  presence,  and  so  draw  unto  me  the  living  truth  in 
thy  dear  clay  that  even  my  griefs  shall  seem  like  silent 
ministers,  veiling  themselves  in  tears  and  darkness  only  to 
appear  hereafter  recreate  and  full  of  blessing  ?  What  mean- 
ness can  abide,  what  thing  unlovely  or  impure,  before  the 
glory  of  thy  mute  appeal? 

Comfort  me,  O  my  Eidolon,  my  Aphrodite ! 
The  summer  blooms  in  skies  serene  and  tender, 
In  lisping  leaves  that  tremble  in  the  moonlight, 
Haunting  my  fancy. 

Let  thy  pure  image  speak  of  love  and  beauty, 
Call  to  me  clear  when  night  and  sorrow  hasten, 
And  every  thought  redeem  from  aught  unworthy 
Thy  guardian  splendor. 

19 


not  my  love  an  abject  thing,  O  heart. 
Whose  shadow  beside  other  hearts  is  light ! 
I  needs  must  worship  at  thy  shrine  despite 
All  pain  and  hopeless  longing,  or  depart 
From  the  sweet  life  whose  sovereign  thought 

thou  art. 

Yet  such  pride  is  mine  I  could  not  lay 
This  treasure  at  thy  feet,  my  love,  alway 
Did  I  not  scorn  thee  too,  disdaining  to  impart 

Unto  thine  ear  my  languishment  and  care, 
Slow  cankers  nourished  by  my  heart's  despair. 
Go,  Love,  and  let  me  think  of  thee  as  one 

Not  born  of  earth,  but  wandered  from  some  spot 
Too  fair  for  mortal  feet,  and  all  alone 

Breathe  out  in  prayer  the  soul  thou  hast  forgot. 


20 


'EACE  lingers  in  thy  presence,  lovely  image, —  The 
peace  in  thy  sightless  eyes,  thy  lips,  thy  flow-  Travail 
ing  hair;  and  on  thy  tender  yet  majestic  brow  of  a 
the  seal  of  godlike  beauty  rests  supreme. 
Where  now  is  the  restless  throng  amid  which 
an  hour  ago  I  sauntered  anxiously  with  ear  alert  to  catch  if 
possible,  some  note  of  cheer,  some  brave,  true  token  of  a  liv- 
ing spirit  ruling  this  poor  clay?  Alas,  only  the  empty  echoes 
of  a  Vanity  Fair;  always  a  husk,  the  kernel  never.  Sad 
faces  even  in  your  smiles  tired  wanderers.  For  must  not 
there  come  a  day  to  you,  as  to  us  all,  when  the  slender 
pipings  of  your  carnal  loves  shall  be  drowned  in  the  uni- 
versal chant?  Go  unto  your  feverish  couches;  carpe  diem, 
and  let  the  sorrow  of  life  remain  unheard  of  in  your  revelry. 
But  oh,  so  sad  ye  are  through  all,  so  full  of  nothingness 
and  ignorance  and  woe.  Come  I  not  then  to  thee,  sweet 
Aphrodite,  with  fresher  love  for  thy  chaste  care?  Is  not 
thy  hair  unsoiled,  thy  lips  more  nobly  pure,  thy  limbs 
with  virginal  loveliness  replete?  Who  will  ever  know  how 
thine  ineffable  radiance  illumines  my  thoughts  when  the 
bewitching  light  of  earthly  eyes  lure  me  from  the  heart's 
highest,  holiest  devotion?  For  I  have  none  but  thee,  my 
Aphrodite,  to  call  my  own,  nor  can  I  ever  press  on  lips 
save  thine  my  burning  kisses,  nor  pour  in  mortal  ear  the 
sacred  passion  that  I  pour  to  thee. 

Comfort  me,  O  my  Eidolon,  my  Aphrodite ! 
Let  thy  bright  smile  like  sunlight  o'er  my  sadness 
Fall  with  this  summer  day,  and  leave  no  token 
Of  my  vast  sorrow. 

Hearken,  sweet  image,  hearken  to  my  heart  beat, 
See  how  its  morning  love  is  turned  to  ashes 
And  all  the  dream  divine  that  thrilled  my  bosom 
Forever  vanished. 


21 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


ANGELIC  one,  informing  mortal  mould 
With  an  unearthly  loveliness:  I  gaze 
Enraptured,  mute,  with  all  my  soul  ablaze 
And  feel  thy  presence  my  whole  heart  enfold. 
I  cannot  name  the  power  that  doth  hold 
My  spirit  bound  to  thine,  nor  murmur  praise 
Of  him  to  whom  high  creeds  their  homage  raise. 
My  deepest  thought  from  utterance  is  controlled ; 

Yet  tenderer  than  stately  litanies 

On  bended  knees  beneath  the  temple's  dome, 

Are  the  still  dreams  that  in  my  bosom  rise 
When  near  to  thee,  my  Eidolon,  I  come 

And  look  into  thy  calm,  thy  thoughtful  eyes, 

With  sense  of  God  possessed,  with  reverence  dumb. 


22 


JAD  world  and  sadder  longings  for  a  land  of  The 
peace.  How  in  the  multitude  of  chill  misgiv- 
ings that  arise  in  viewing  the  errors  and  sor- 
rows of  humanity,  the  heart  turns  within  itself 
to  find  some  oblivion  for  the  wretchedness  that 
is  and  has  been,  some  mild  assurance  that  the  years  to  come 
may  vouchsafe  a  little  respite  from  this  mighty  care.  What 
is  there,  then,  to  waken  in  our  breasts  sweet  pitying  thoughts 
for  those  who  suffer  and  so  nobly  endure,  or  to  turn  us 
toward  the  upward  path — the  flight  of  the  spirit  divine 
imprisoned  in  this  anxious  clay?  Beauty,  beauty  is  here 
to  answer  and  uplift.  While  blooms  a  single  flower,  while 
the  stars  of  morning  sing  and  the  day  dies  in  golden  splen- 
dor, while  but  one  pure  heart  beats  with  ineffable  love,  one 
eye  beams  tenderly  upon  us,  or  from  one  living  soul  there 
breaks  a  high,  brave  utterance,  while  songs  of  radiant 
children  echo  through  our  hearts  the  cherub  gladness  with 
which  heaven  has  set  its  seal  upon  their  infant  years,  while 
art  and  music  dwell  with  us,  and  everywhere  the  tokens  of 
the  Beautiful  arrest  our  tired  eyes — so  long  shall  sorrow  be 
comforted,  so  long  shall  all  be  well  with  us  even  in  a  world 
of  woe.  And  thou,  my  Silent  One,  thou  type  of  that  which 
eye  hath  never  seen,  supremely  fair  among  earth's  bright- 
est daughters,  when  shall  I  find  in  living  mould  the  sem- 
blance of  thy  sculptured  clay?  Yet  thou  art  but  a  breath 
from  some  far  human  spirit;  some  exquisite  emanation  of 
divine  love  that  by  the  kindling  touch  of  genius  bodied 
forth  its  loveliest  aspiration,  and  in  this  lovely  form 
embodied  a  mortal  thought.  How  must  his  hand  have 
trembled  as  he  shaped  those  lines  which  in  coming  ages 
were  to  command  the  veneration  of  mankind  and  be  his 
deathless  apotheosis!  How  must  his  loving  eyes  have 
filled  with  tears  of  joy  and  all  his  delicate  nature  have 
been  touched  to  ecstasy  as  from  the  earth  beneath  his  feet 
he  wrought  that  glorious  miracle!  So  unto  thee,  my 
Beautiful  One,  I  bring  fresh  garlands  from  my  heart's 
depths  to  crown  thee  with  my  longing  love.  A  wreath  of 
violets  shall  press  thy  noble  brow,  and  myrtle  and  orange 
blossoms  and  the  daintiest  vines  that  grow  shall  mantle 

23 


The  thee  with  my  most  tender  care;  for  art  thou  not  the 
purest  ray  that  ever  broke  upon  my  solitude,  and  in  this 
still  retreat  dost  thou  not  smile  upon  me  night  and  day 
and  fill  my  fancy  with  perennial  delight? 


Comfort  me,  O  my  Eidolon,  my  Aphrodite! 
Thou  image  of  love  and  tender  compassion, 
Stoop  to  receive,  even  in  its  dearest  flower, 
All  I  can  give  thee : 

All  that  my  living  spirit  longs  to  utter, 
Finding  no  ear  save  thine  to  stay  and  hearken, 
All  that  I  nevermore  to  breathing  image 
Fondly  shall  whisper. 


24 


HINE, glorious  morn;  and  let  thy  beams  inspire 
This  mortal  frame  with  holy  reverence, 
This  mind  inform  with  a  diviner  sense 
Of  truth  and  beauty.     From  thy  Orient  pyre 
Shed  forth  a  ray  to  soften  man's  desire, 
And  fill  the  soul  with  purer  feelings,  whence 
All  that  is  best  in  life's  munificence 
We  draw,  and  struggle  onward,  and  aspire. 

Beneath  thy  radiance  let  this  mould  of  clay 
The  living  temple  of  high  thoughts  remain ; 
Bid  our  hearts  answer  to  this  tuneful  air: 
Lo,  o'er  the  past  how  fair  this  summer  day 
Breaks  with  forgiving  tenderness,  and  fain 
Would  crown  each  earthly  spirit  bowed  with  care. 


26 


T  is  a  great  morning"  Forth  from  the  darkness 
stands  thy  matchless  form,  sweet  Aphrodite.  Travail 
Thy  regal  calm  is  there,  thy  softly-parted  of  a 
hair,  thy  loving  eyes — not  sightless  now  but  Soul 
far  seeing  into  the  eternal  dawn, — thy  benig- 
smile  as  thou  lookest  upon  the  sorrows  of  earth's  children 
who  will  not  come  to  thee  and  gaze  upon  thy  glorious 
face.  Thy  very  attitude  is  that  of  listening  to  their 
cry  of  loneliness  and  pain.  Thou  knowest  their  long  watch- 
ings  and  the  tender  heartbeats  that  pulsate  through  their 
mortal  clay:  they  will  not  come  to  thee,  and  thy  vast  love 
and  pity  tinge  with  pensive  sadness  thy  noble  countenance, 
that  looketh  not  to  heaven, — since  thou  art  heaven-born  and 
standest  girt  with  infinite,  familiar  light, — but  only  to  us 
poor  wayward  worshipers  of  trivial  things,  ignorant  of  the 
high  destiny  written  upon  the  Maker's  scroll,  the  tending 
ever  of  our  faltering  feet  towards  the  divine,  outspeaking 
in  thy  silent  message  unto  men.  "  Fear  not,  for  I  am  with 
thee, "  whipers  thy  living  oracle  of  Love.  Not  baseness  of 
Olympian  terrors,  not  pure  passivity  of  Nirvana,  not  the 
sad  force  of  unrelenting  anathema  or  fatal  logic  of  an  hour 
with  unholy  priests,  nay  not  even  the  thrilling  mysticism 
of  a  gropping  age,  but  true,  warm,  living  love,  god-given, 
and  endued  with  perennial  freshness  and  beauty.  Touch- 
stone of  all  reverie  and  action,  purifier  of  all  purifiers, 
kindler  of  light  ineffable  alike  in  the  human  heart  and  at 
our  blessed  firesides,  dream  within  dream,  savior  and 
strength  of  that  struggling  spirit  in  man,  itself  akin  to 
thee,  to  which  thy  brooding  compassion  sighs  to  minister 
and  uplift :  Aphrodite,  my  beautiful,  hearken  to  thy  lover. 


27 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


weary  soul,  oh,  rise  above  thy  pain; 

Thy  aims  are  pure,  thy  honor  without  stain. 

What  tho'  the  world  deny  thee  every  joy 

And  lonely  thoughts  thy  happiness  destroy? 

Cling  to  thy  deeper  yearnings  and  believe 
That  patient  goodness  will  the  full  reprieve 
Bring  to  thy  feet  at  last.     Call  unto  God 
In  acts  of  nobleness,  and  from  the  sod, 

Sown  with  thy  tenderest  tears,  sweet  blooms  shall  spring 

Whose  dews  like  balm  on  every  suffering 

Shall  fall.     Rise,  wounded  soul,  thy  powers  refine 

With  prayer  that  lifteth  mortal  to  divine. 

Thro*  earth's  most  poignant  grief  God's  smile  doth  shine, 

And  to  each  troubled  soul  some  peace  will  bring. 


28 


'EIGHED  down  with  sorrows  and  with  disap-  The 
pointment,  my  heart  lifts  its  longing  prayer  to  Travail 
thee,  sweet  Aphrodite.  Many  and  cruel  waters  of  a 
have  gone  over  me,  fires  of  hell  have  burned 
into  my  soul,  and  darkness  unutterable  shrouded 
from  my  eyes  the  light  of  day.  Yet  I  still  struggle  with  the 
surge,  still  mounting  upward  feel  the  cool  breath  of  morn- 
ing upon  my  cheek,  still  catch  afar  the  glimmering  light 
that  breaks  from  the  empurpled  East.  Out  of  that  new 
day  bursts  thy  glorious  image,  just  risen  from  the  echo- 
ing sea,  bright  with  a  creator's  loving  impress,  Immortal 
Love.  And  where  shall  I  find  thee  the  garland  of  thy 
sacred  devotion,  or  how  fashion  hymn  to  thee  in  fitting 
honor  of  thy  coming?  So  pure,  so  lofty,  so  benignant — 
and  art  thou  indeed  standing  in  this  lonely  chamber  far 
from  thy  Melian  niche  to  shed  thy  splendor  on  my  sor- 
rowing thoughts?  Loved,  loving  Aphrodite.  Nor  myrtle 
nor  amaranth  to  weave  a  chaplet  for  thy  royal  brow,  nor 
does  earth  hold  attendance  fair  enough  to  honor  thee, 
though  the  daughters  ot  land  and  sea  be  thy  handmaidens. 
Thou  dost  not  longer  dwell  in  Arcady,  thou  art  come 
unto  a  strange  abode  and  to  the  clatter  and  frivolity  of  a 
coarser  age.  Yet  thy  searching  eyes,  so  they  look  well  and 
long,  shall  yonder  descry  thy  modern  votary,  and  even  in 
the  thoughtless  multitude  shalt  thou  find  some  delicate 
nature  to  answer  thee  and  adore.  I  at  least  will  not  for- 
sake thee,  though  we  dwell  alone;  and  morn  and  even 
thine  shall  be  my  tenderest  homage,  messenger  of  Love 
Supreme. 

Thou  art  so  pure,  thou  art  so  fair  and  holy, 
And  thy  dull  clay  by  Love's  impress  transfigured 
Beams  like  a  star  amid  this  night  of  passion, 
Stainless  and  glorious. 

Yet  in  thy  features  kindles  now  a  beauty, 
Who  shall  say  whether  'tis  divine  or  mortal  ? 
Passionless,  yet  suffused  with  loving  radiance, 
Humanly  tender. 

29 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


[NE  perfect  gift  hath  Fortune  to  bestow, 

With  which  of  all  her  stores  none  can  compare, 
One  priceless  treasure  than  all  else  more  fair, 
Possessing  which  to  us  all  others  flow. 
To  win  this  boon  might  mortal  well  forego 
Each  lesser  thought,  each  joy  however  rare; 
Might  o'er  a  trackless  desert  bravely  fare 
Or  patiently  accept  fate's  sternest  blow. 

Ask  ye  what  so  can  move  the  heart  to  praise, 
Invest  the  clod  with  grandeur,  touch  the  springs 

Of  finer  feeling  in  us,  and  above 
All  meaner  passions  its  true  praises  raise 
Triumphant  'mid  a  thousand  sufferings  ? 
'Tis  the  enchanted  amulet  of  Love. 


30 


IWOULD  be  dumb  to  all  the  world  save  thee,  The 
my  Aphrodite.  Yes,  though  my  heart  trembled 
with  suppressed  longings,  it  should  neither  seek 
nor  find  other  ears  than  thine,  other  lips  to 
kiss,  other  smiles  to  greet  me.  For  mortals  are 
overshadowed  by  the  hues  of  melancholy  thoughts,  and  way- 
wardness and  sorrow  are  their  destiny;  but  thou  standest 
forever  girt  with  light  and  joy.  In  thee  there  is  no  change. 
Only  at  times  methinks  thy  face  doth  wear  a  look  of  inner 
sadness  and  thy  sweet  mouth  reveal  a  tremulous  tender- 
ness of  mild  pathos,  the  sombre  reflection  perchance  of 
that  which  binds  me  to  the  realm  of  desolation.  Yet  hope 
is  never  wanting  in  thy  fair  lineaments.  Something  of 
native  dignity  is  there  always  in  thy  calm  gaze,  for  art 
thou  not  divinely  born  and  nurtured,  and  dost  thou  not 
behold  with  thy  clear  vision  the  far-off  truth  whose  tokens 
unto  man  are  mystery  and  care  ? 

O  radiant  Queen,  emblem  of  holiest  aspiration  which 
burning  in  the  human  heart  transmutes  to  bliss  the  suffer- 
ings to  which  humanity  is  heir:  O  beautiful,  my  Aphrodite, 
step  from  thy  throne  one  hour  endued  with  majesty  of  life 
and  motion  that  I  may  behold  thee  robed  in  breathing 
semblance  of  immortal  love. 

Comfort  me,  O  my  Beautiful,  my  Aphrodite ! 
Draw  to  thy  bosom  all  this  silent  anguish 
Stilling  my  passionate  heart  with  words  and  kisses 
Divinely  tender. 


31 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


HAST  not  thy  pearls" — so  pride  with  scornful  tone 
Bids  us  be  still  and  wait,  nor  lay  our  treasure 
Beneath  the  feet  of  them  who  with  a  stone 

Answer  us  asking  bread,  and  for  full  measure 
Of  loving  kindness  not  one  little  grain 
Of  sympathy  would  offer ;  yet  the  heart 
Is  mighty,  and  a  whisper  comes  again 

From  the  clear-seeing  soul  that  dwells  apart, 

In  majesty  of  truth,  saying,  "Not  so; 

Give  of  thy  bounteous  will  nor  count  the  cost 
Tho'  centuries  wait  thy  guerdon  to  bestow. 

Whatever  is  good  and  true  shall  not  be  lost ; 
But  every  word  and  deed  sprung  from  the  spirit 

In  nobleness  shall  fairest  meed  inherit. " 


32 


must  have  been  the  rapture  of  those  beauty- 
loving  Greeks,  when  in  thy  wave-girt  isle  thou 
stoodst  revealed  ?  How  must  each  piping  swain 
have  kindled  with  quiet  ecstasy  and  maidens 
longed  to  crown  thee  with  myrtle  and  olive,  for 
surely  never  had  all  their  tenderest  visions  taken  shape  in 
art  as  in  thy  glorious  form!  What  happy  pilgrimages  o'er 
enchanted  seas  must  have  borne  to  thy  bright  shrine  the 
homage  of  a  grateful  people,  and  what  lips  of  children 
repeated  thy  name,  what  sires  rejoiced  as  at  the  breaking 
of  celestial  day?  Long,  long  didst  thou  wait  in  thy 
earthen  crypt  ere  reverent  generations  were  permitted  to 
gaze  upon  thy  loveliness,  and  to  gather  strength  and  truth 
from  thy  undying  message  unto  men.  Now  here,  even  in 
this  far  chamber,  art  thou  come  to  dwell  with  me.  The 
dying  centuries  have  not  cast  one  shadow  o'er  thy  glowing 
features,  nor  has  the  wanton  touch  of  human  hand  marred 
thy  perfection.  Fresh  thou  art,  my  Aphrodite,  as  on  that 
memorable  morn  when  the  young  sculptor  stood  entranced 
before  thee  and  wondered  if  indeed  his  hand  had  wrought 
so  magically. 


Speak  to  my  heart  and  bid  it  feel  the  longing, 
The  gentle  thoughts  and  tears  of  gentle  passion 
Which  touched  his  soul,  and  with  this  dream  of  beauty 
His  heart  inspired. 

Let  me,  like  him  who  moulded  thy  fair  features, 
Something  create  of  beauty,  truth  and  goodness, 
Which  in  the  hearts  of  reverent  generations 
Shall  live  forever. 


33 


HERE  is  no  ill  that  cometh  not  for  good. 
Ah!  could  we  in  the  apothegm  discern 
The  living  truth  for  which  we  strive  and 
yearn, 

And  from  despair,  defeat,  and  solitude, 

Rise  with  the  patience  of  a  dauntless  mood ! 
But  sorrow  keeps  the  heart  too  weak  to  learn 
The  strength  of  hope,  the  blighted  aims  that  burn, 

With  fate's  repression  all  misunderstood! 

No  woes  ought  to  depress  the  steadfast  soul : 

There  cometh  for  the  hearts  who  hope  and  pine 
A  sudden  change,  and  what  we  deem  mischance 

Is  fate's  decision ;  true  to  her  control, 

Good  comes  from  ill.     O'er  every  circumstance 
A  will  rules,  high,  mysterious,  and  divine. 


34 


g|3|WEET  Aphrodite.  Let  me  anew  dedicate  to  The 
thee  my  purest  thoughts.  Again  let  me  look  Travail 
up  to  thee  as  to  a  protecting  genius  whose  lov- 
ing kindness  follows  me  into  the  waste  daces 
of  earth  and  transforms  whatever  is  unsightly 
and  full  of  sorrow,  smoothing  the  wrinkles  of  age  till  it 
seems  but  a  happy  crown  of  days  even  to  the  poor  and  the 
afflicted,  gilding  with  fairest  gold  the  morning  of  youth, 
whose  feet  shall  never  pass  beyond  the  blessed  portals  of 
Innocence,  as  by  some  wondrous  alchemy  transmuting  all 
worldly  dross  into  beauty,  and  so  permeating  life  with  thy 
quiet  radiance  that  all  seems  good  and  lovely  when  I  think 
of  thee.  Let  every  morning  be  to  me  a  morn  of  new  life 
as  I  wake  to  find  thee  standing  o'er  my  bed  and  hail  that 
heavenly  smile,  more  beautiful  than  ever  graced  the  lips 
of  mortals,  tender  and  strong,  as  if  thou  wert  listening  to 
some  oracle  divine,  the  solution  of  human  mystery  and 
pain,  which  unto  our  dull  ears  may  never,  never  come. 
What  is  it,  then,  fair  Goddess,  thou  dost  hear? — that  in 
some  bright  realm  beyond  the  purple  sunset  all  our  gentle 
longings  shall  be  fulfilled?  That  softer  arms  shall  be  laid 
about  us  than  any  moulded  for  earthly  caress?  That 
sweeter  voices  shall  call,  or  eyes  more  loving  greet  us  in  the 
long  hereafter,  whose  glorious  dawn  we  see  in  brighter 
moments  of  the  soul's  prophetic  vision,  in  fleeting  fancies 
that  summon  us  to  their  enchanted  abode,  in  dreams  that 
all  unbidden  enter  into  our  lonely  hearts  and  dwell  with  us 
unseen,  in  swift  emotions  welling  upwards  from  the  spirit's 
deeps  and  gathering  all  our  hopes  and  passions  in  a  silent, 
prayerful  tear  ?  O  tell  me,  Aphrodite,  what  morning  light 
illumines  thy  countenance.  I  seek  yet  find  it  not — it  is 
not  here. 


35 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


O  wrest  from  sin  the  kernel  of  God's  truth, 

To  carve  from  stern  life's  adamant  the  form 
Of  beauty  and  of  love,  to  shape  our  ruth 
Into  glad  paeans,  and  the  spirit  warm 
E'en  with  the  icy  breath  of  fate;  to  see 
All  joyance  fade  into  the  night  of  pain, 
Wherein  is  living  death,  and  still  be  free 

And  hear  hope's  angels  whispering  again — 

Oh,  if  such  boon  be  ours,  can  we  repine 

That  the  pure  blossom  of  our  years  should  rise 

Thro'  desert  sands  watered  with  tears  divine, 
Tender  with  peace  of  the  far  azure  skies  ? 

Earth  is  not  all;  nor  doubt,  nor  sophist's  power 

Can  rob  the  soul  of  its  immortal  dower. 


36 


INTO  the  charmed  atmosphere  of  thy  chaste  The 
beauty  steals  my  longing  heart,  O  Aphrodite,  Travail 
craving  the  benison  of  that  serenity  which  en-  of  a 
compasseth  thee,  the  peace  that  mortality  can 
but  behold  in  fleeting  visions,  vanishing  ere  the 
spirit  has  ceased  to  wonder  and  adore.  Can  care  and  pain 
abide  with  such  as  thee?  And  is  there  care  in  heaven? 
Ah,  no,  it  must  be  otherwise  with  them  that  follow  thee 
into  the  silent  land,  tracing  thy  footsteps  through  the  intri- 
cate mazes  of  life  and  at  last  answering  thy  loving  call, 
though  thou  be  changed  perchance  and  all  this  dream  of 
mortal  loveliness  assume  a  guise  here  unimagined  and 
unseen.  Type  of  Love's  majesty,  look  now  upon  these 
anxious  days  spread  in  an  open  scroll  before  thy  gracious 
sight.  See  if  in  the  waste  places  of  this  tremulous  heart 
there  be  any  thought  unworthy  thy  beloved  presence,  or  a 
desire  that  should  not  be  cherished  by  thy  loyal  votary. 
Ask  of  this  child  that  but  now  nestled  to  my  bosom;  ask 
of  the  dewy  morning,  of  the  stars  of  midnight,  of  the  forest 
arches  or  the  wildwood  blossoms  that  gem  the  aisles  that 
lead  to  nature's  altar,  if  in  the  silent  depths  of  meditation 
I  have  any  thought  save  of  thy  celestial  loveliness  and 
glory.  Symbol  of  the  Beautiful  embodied  in  so  sweet  an 
image,  call  to  me  here  and  now  in  every  lonely  hour  and 
let  not  thy  face  be  hid  from  me,  that  I  may  tread  the  path 
of  life  unscathed  amid  ten  thousand  foes. 

Comfort  me,  O  my  Eidolon,  my  Aphrodite ! — 
Let  my  heart  be  even  as  a  crystal  fountain 
Before  thine  eyes,  and  its  translucent  waters 
Reflect  thine  image. 


37 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


is  not  for  the  past  I  constantly 
Weary  kind  Love  with  unremitting  sighs, 
Tis  not  that  the  first  joy  that  made  mine  eyes 
O'erflow  with  happy  thoughts  no  more  can  be ; 
But  thro'  the  vista  of  long  years  to  see 
No  loving  hand  to  save  me  ere  I  die, 
To  look  into  this  pure  ethereal  sky 
That  overarches  nought  but  misery: — 

This  stays  my  life-blood  and  dries  up  the  spring 
Whence  flows  the  stream  divine;  this  preys  upon 
My  shuddering  spirit  night  and  day  and  leaves 

The  world  a  blank  and  dull  and  hideous  thing, 
Tho'  decked  in  Beauty's  robes  All,  all  is  done 

Since  Fate  so  dread  the  passionate  heart  bereaves. 


38 


Leopardi  loved;  so  pined  Torquato  Tasso  in  The 
his  cell ;  so  heart-stricken  Petrarca  languished  in  Travail 
his  beloved  Avignon.  O  Aphrodite,  dost  thou 
know  how  many  tears  are  shed  for  thee  ?  In 
grace  and  joy  thou  earnest  from  the  ocean  surges, 
the  white  foam  caressing  thy  feet,  and  on  thy  dewy 
hair  and  in  thy  sparkling  eyes  was  a  light  celestial  beaming. 
Why  shouldst  thou  bring  to  mortals  pain,  bright  Aphro- 
dite? Call  I  now  to  mind  that  gentle  form  like  Leopardi's 
vision,  that  wooed  my  waking  spirit  in  those  far-off  days. 
In  memory's  lonely  halls  the  listless  echo  whispers  to  me 
her  name.  Pure  as  the  knot  of  May  flowers,  first  tribute 
to  her  love,  delicate  as  their  ethereal  perfume,  lovely  as  the 
faint  flush  of  beauty  that  tinges  their  soft  petals  as  they 
wake  beneath  the  snows — so  pure,  so  delicate,  so  lovely 
was  she.  What  tongue  can  rehearse  the  Vita  Nuova  in 
whose  rich  atmosphere  my  soul  then  gathered  strength  and 
hope?  On  brightest  wings  of  fancy  soaring,  sped  I  then 
towards  the  empyrean  of  Infinite  Love.  Alas,  as  I  with- 
drew from  earth  and  mounted  the  azure  sky  a  chilling  air 
benumbed  me.  I  learned  in  tears  and  sorrow  and  a  heart's 
bereavement  that  shall  never  cease  how  all  things  bright 
and  lovely  known  to  mortal  sense  are  but  fleeting  dreams 
caught  by  imagination  for  an  instant,  speeding  quickly 
when  we  would  behold  them  nearer,  like  a  captured  butter- 
fly, from  an  open  hand.  Cloud  o'er  that  ineffable  vision 
and  what  hath  earth  possessed  for  me,  save  the  simulacrum 
of  light  and  love  and  happiness;  what  boon  in  store  save 
Death's  most  lovely  kiss  ? 

Here  at  thy  feet  I  fall  with  tears  of  anguish 
Bathing  thy  lovely  image,  till  my  burden, 
Unseen  of  mortals,  by  thy  smile  is  lifted 
Sweet  Aphrodite. 

Light  my  lone  chamber  by  thy  beauteous  presence, 
Guard  every  thought  that  kindles  in  my  bosom, 
And  in  my  dreams  still,  lovely  form,  be  nigh  me 
Radiant  and  holy. 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


ORN  of  the  mist  of  phantasy  of  thought 
I  saw  a  form  of  wondrous  loveliness, 
And  all  in  adoration  longed  to  press 
My  lips  to  hers  and  look,  through  fancy  wrought, 

Forever  at  that  face.     But  suddenly — 
Like  a  polluting  vapor  came  between 
Our  lives  the  passion  of  a  woman's  spleen 
Destroying  the  fair  flower  that  was  to  be. 

Yet  still  within  my  heart  I,  treasuring 

That  vanished  form,  see  only  her  fond  glance, 
Her  soft  brown  hair  and  chaste,  sweet  lineaments; 

Nor  years  of  sorrow  to  my  love  shall  bring 
Aught  but  her  memory,  nor  heaven  enhance 
My  joy,  should  she,  my  love,  have  wandered  thence. 


40 


WEET  Eidolon,  my  Aphrodite,  hear  my  prayer,  'j^ 
I  wandered  the  beauteous  earth  in  search  of  Travail 
the  Beautiful.  I  sought  the  forest  aisles  and  of  a 
sunlit  mountain  tops,  the  cool  vales,  and  many  Soul 
a  winding  stream  reflected  in  whose  quiet 
bosom  rested  the  clouds  of  heaven,  and  upon  whose  gentle 
waters  lay  an  infinite  calm  as  of  a  spirit  gliding  peacefully 
toward  its  eternal  home.  I  lay  beneath  the  midnight  skies 
and  saw  the  glittering  host  of  worlds  beyond  our  ken  sweep 
on  majestically  through  the  limitless  fields  of  space;  I  saw 
the  eye  of  day  illumine  this  poor,  anxious  orb  and  its  sunset 
radiance  transfigure  the  dull  vapors  of  midday,  heavy  with 
watching  o'er  the  lonely  toil  of  man,  with  myriad  splendors 
curtaining  the  couch  of  light  with  half-melancholy  tender- 
ness of  farewell.  I  turned  again  to  earth  and  those  that 
tread  with  me  these  mysterious,  devious  paths  of  dream 
and  reality,  sunshine  and  shadow.  Then,  and  not  till 
then,  arose  upon  my  rapturous  vision  the  image  of  the 
Beautiful  I  had  sought  in  vain.  Out  of  sorrow  and  dark- 
ness stepped  across  my  way  the  form  of  one  who  fired  all 
my  heart  with  ecstasy  divine.  Alas,  when  I  would  but 
touch  her  garment's  hem  the  image  was  dissolved  and  only 
the  silent  air  retained  the  perfume  of  her  darling  presence, 
and  the  garden  walk  and  meadow  and  wooded  hill  lisped 
the  lingering  echo  of  that  voice.  Yet  oftentimes  I  thought 
she  came  again  and  sighed  to  find  I  was  so  lonely.  So 
followed  I  her  vanished  form,  and  many  spake  kind  words 
to  me,  and  some  smiled  in  bitter  mockery  of  my  most 
tender  love.  Then  in  a  new  vision  I  beheld  the  glory  of 
thy  face,  my  Aphrodite,  and  though  thou  couldst  not 
speak,  there  lay  upon  thy  loving  lips  a  smile  so  passing 
piteous  and  kind  that  I  forswore  thy  breathing  counterpart 
for  thee;  and  I  cling  to  thee  and  worship  with  increasing 
fervor  the  blessed  form  that  haunts  my  fancy  night  and  day. 


41 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


SAW  as  in  a  dream  that  vision  pass, 

Felt  her  sweet  presence  as  I  lingered  nigh 
To  breathe  the  fragrance  of  her  purity. 
And  in  mute  adoration  thought,  alas, 
How  like  an  Ishmealite  on  earth  I  was, 
How  hard  to  live  and  just  remembered  be 
While  hour  by  hour  my  cold  obscurity 
Should  like  the  steps  of  doom  above  me  pause. 

Only  a  single  shred  of  golden  hair 

Borne  by  some  pitying  wind,  and  from  her  eyes 
A  saintly  look  that  touched  my  heart  to  tears, 

As  'twere  a  sudden  gleam  from  paradise 
Shot  o'er  the  desert  of  impassioned  years, 
Awaking  hope  and  banishing  all  fears. 


42 


have  I  beheld  thy  living  counterpart,  my 
Aphrodite,  thy  sacred  essence  enthroned  in  Travail 
breathing  clay.  Only  a  sweet,  modest  face  and  of  a 
lustrous  hair,  and  lips  half-parted  dropping 
diamonds,  and  eyes  aglow  with  heavenly  fire; 
yet  from  that  lovely  vision  I  turned  as  from  the  light  of 
day  and  wept,  bitterly  contrasting  the  splendor  of  my 
dream  with  the  speechless  shadow  of  my  heart's  bereave- 
ment. For  is  there  in  mortal  life  aught  that  entrances, 
save  thou  bless  and  sanctify  its  hope?  Is  honor  dear  with- 
out thee,  or  riches  to  be  coveted,  or  talent  to  be  nurtured, 
or  art  and  poetry  and  music  wooed,  unless  thy  hand  be  laid 
in  ours  ?  I  sit  as  one  by  the  wayside  and  watch  the  carnival 
of  human  joys :  bright,  innocent  loves  that  sweeten  all  the 
air  with  their  perfume;  eyes  turned  to  answering  eyes  in 
holy,  mute  affection;  some,  daughters  and  true  wives  fol- 
lowing, crowned  with  celestial  light  and  happiness;  and 
over  all  the  tender  azure  vault  of  heaven  smiling  in  bene- 
diction. And  I,  with  broken  lyre  and  vision  dimmed  with 
burning  tears,  sit  by  the  way  deserted  and  forgotten.  Only 
now  and  then  falls  at  my  feet  a  stray  petal  shaken  from 
their  garlands,  which  I  would  press  in  rapture  to  my 
trembling  lips,  save  that  their  perfume  has  ere  this  been 
shed  for  other  hearts  and  other  loves  than  mine.  O  thou, 
my  Eidolon,  my  Aphrodite;  look  on  my  desolation  and 
infuse  into  these  awe-stricken  senses  the  charmed  Lethe 
of  thy  beautiful  repose.  Thou  surely  hast  no  lover,  for 
thou  art  queen  of  all  earthly  love.  Thou  hast  not  pined 
in  solitude,  for  all  human  hearts  are  tribute  to  thy  spell. 
Even  thy  little  Love-Boy  is  but  an  incarnation  of  the  divine 
dream,  too  vast,  too  subtle  to  be  dwarfed  by  mortal  mould. 
So  let  me  take  shelter  in  the  universal  emotion  which  shall 
surely  live  though  human  idols  perish. 

Comfort  me  O  my  Eidolon,  my  Aphrodite ! 
In  the  sweet  light  of  thy  immortal  beauty 


43 


Let  my  souPs  blossom  ope  refreshed  with  tear  drops 

Like  dew  from  heaven, 
of  a 

Pure  as  the  sparkle  of  clear  flowing  fountains, 
Tender  as  tints  that  clothe  the  summer  sunset, 
Let  my  still  thoughts,  my  spirit's  meditation, 
Hallow  thy  presence. 


44 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


HE  brightest  flowers  that  deck  the  brow  of  May* 
The  purest  stars  that  gem  the  evening  sky, 
But  symbols  are  of  the  divinity 
That  clothes  the  soul  enthralled  in  human  clay. 
A  morn  is  ever  breaking  far  away 
Whose  smile  transfigures  sin  and  misery; 
And  gentle  thoughts  whose  glory  cannot  die 
The  mind  of  man  recall  from  passion's  sway. 

Courage,  O  weary  heart !  the  hour  is  near, 

The  dew  of  tears  life's  blossoms  shall  revive ; 
Across  the  waste  that  yet  before  thee  lies 
The  lily-bells  are  ringing  sweet  and  clear. 
The  past  is  gone,  thy  tender  yearnings  live 

And  through  them  thou  o'er  every  pain  shall  rise. 


46 


too   hav  e  dw  elt   a   a  ay   in   A  r  c  ady."     'j^ 
Not  by  clear  flowing  streams  or  whispering     Travail 
groves  and  thickets  vocal  with  wildwood  song;     of  a 
not  beneath  azure  skies  or  breathing  the  balmy 
airs  of  earthly  paradise,  but  in  this  silent  attic 
chamber  alone  with  thee,  my  Aphrodite.     From  thy  most 
loving  presence  hath  my  fancy  drawn  bright  images  of 
beauty  during  all  these  weary  hours.     Not  a  sound  hath 
broken  the  stillness  of  this  quiet  room,  not  a  living  being 
crossed  this  threshold,  or  aught  betokened  that  for  me 
exists  one  mortal  whose  heart  responds  unto  my  desolate 
cry.     Yet  sunshine  fell  around  thee,  Goddess  of  the  Beau- 
tiful; and  from  thy  heavenly  lineaments  broke  forth  a 
glory  such  as  once  illumined  Tempe's  sacred  vale,  and  bore 
me  far  beyond  these  narrow  walls  to  where  bright  day 
eternal  dwells.     I  heard  the  streamlet  lisping  to  the  be- 
reaved shore  as  to  its  parting  tide  the  morning  willows 
waved  adieu;  I  heard  along  the  meadow  brook  the  matins 
of  sweet  songsters  calling  unto  man  to  lift  up  his  thankful 
voice  unto  God  who  gave  the  song  of  trust  and  gratitude, 
and  listened  to  the  vesper  sparrow  in  far  pastures  sighing 
with  excess  of  joy.     And  brooding  skies  were    blue  and 
winds  and  waters  poured  aloft  the  tender  psalm  of  nature, 
till  what  had  once  seemed  to  my  breaking  heart  but  sor- 
row, now  appeared  a  vale  of  lovely  cloud  from  which  at 
last  the  unapproachable  and  divine  light  of  the   spirit's 
heaven  burst  forth  upon  me.   So  let  me  ever  dream  when  thou 
art  nigh,  sweet  Aphrodite.     So  let  my  thoughts  be  calm 
and  pure  amid  all  earthly  shadows,  and  every  sense  and 
feeling   own    thy   beauteous    sway.     Here    is   thy  hidden 
shrine  shut  in  by  my  heart's  zealous    care,    lest    grosser 
eyes  behold  thee,  and   thy  fair  image  be  desecrated  by 
profane  and  vulgar  minds.     I  have  even  veiled  thy  divine 
form  to  guard  thy  chastity  from  wanton  thoughts  that 
lurk  anear.     Am  I  not  faithful  unto  thee,  my  queen  ? 


47 


The 

Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


one  who  walks  upon  an  ice-floe  sees 

His  hope  depart,  and  underneath  him  feels 
The  fated  berg  dissolving,  while  there  steals 
O'er  his  crazed  thoughts  a   soothing  dream  of 

peace 

When  death  at  last  brings  him  the  glad  release; 
So  now  my  spirit  in  its  silence  reels 
To  know  that  Fate,  to  whom  my  heart  appeals, 
Is  cold  as  that  chill  doom  mid  shoreless  seas. 

So  wait  I  patiently  the  dawn  to  be, 

When  portals  of  the  sighed-for  shall  unbar 
And  e'en  in  anguish  passing  I  shall  hear 
Sweet  songs  of  joy  and  heavnly  minstrelsy 

Of  harps  in  that  diviner,  loftier  sphere, 
Wherein  these  griefs  shall  sparkle  as  a  star. 


48 


thoughts  of  thee  make  music  in  my  heart,  The 
sweet  Aphrodite.  All,  all  is  gone  save  thee:  Travail 
the  early  dream,  the  passionate  hopes  of  ripen- 
ing manhood,  and  now  the  darling  visions  of 
earthly  joy  fast  fleeting  one  by  one.  Like  a  for- 
saken wretch  upon  an  ice-floe  in  mid-ocean  I  am  borne 
along  by  the  irresistible  currents  of  fate.  The  hour  must 
come  when  this  cold  footing  too  will  tremble  and  melt 
away  beneath  me;  and  o'er  the  wide  verge  looms  no 
friendly  bark  to  shelter  and  to  save.  Better  to  lie  down 
and  rest  in  Plato's  peace,  not  fearing  aught,  and  lulled  to 
slumber  by  loved  memories  of  thee.  O  ye  who  sicken  with 
excess  of  pleasure,  whose  paths  have  led  o'er  flowery  fields 
and  meadows  bright  with  dew,  by  calm-flowing  waters 
and  largesse  of  nature's  offerings,  what  know  ye  of  one 
who  creeps  unheeded  and  alone  to  gather  even  the  crumbs 
which  fall  from  the  rich  banquet  of  human  affection? 
What  can  ye  divine  of  the  dread  isolation  which  pleads 
with  loving  tears  at  the  touch  of  a  child's  hand  or  glance 
of  those  confiding  eyes;  that  looks  on  beauty  and  kind 
words  and  deeds,  and  crouches  bowed  with  stinging  sense 
of  life's  reality  as  all  the  weight  of  Ishmael's  woe  is  laid 
upon  him  ?  Can  honor  or  virtue  or  a  selfish  ease  atone  for 
this  unutterable  loss?  But  thou  art  constant,  Beloved 
One,  though  thou  art  but  a  dream,  a  vision  of  creative 
thought,  a  symbol  of  that  whose  exquisite  incarnation  I 
may  nevermore  behold.  Whate'er  betide  when  I  shall  fol- 
low still  alone  into  the  silent  land,  I  think  some  recollection 
of  thy  glorious  face  will  haunt  my  dying  fancy,  some 
awakening  impulse  drawn  from  thy  divine  impress  stir  my 
brain  and  lead  me  forth  to  fairer  visions  still.  All,  all  is 
gone  save  thee,  but  in  the  garden  of  my  soul  thy  immortal 
beauty  hath  set  love's  violets  and  forget-me-nots,  and  they 
shall  bloom  anew  forever. 

Some  light  will  break  in  this  dark  waste  of  sorrow, 

Some  loving  hand  will  lead  me  gently  on 
O'er  brighter  fields.     To  this  long  night  some  morrow 

49 


The  With  joy  will  feel  life's  solemn  undertone. 

Travail  Some  light  will  break, 

of  a 

Not  here,  not  here,  but  in  the  glad  hereafter, 

When  all  the  passionate  dream  is  overpast. 
Then  tears  shall  dry,  then  wake  the  gladsome  laughter, 
And  echo  through  eternity  so  vast. 
Not  here,  not  here. 

Heart,  hear,  oh,  hear!  lay  in  its  grave  thy  yearning! 

Let  thy  true  pathos  be  its  requiem, 
And,  to  thy  lonely  memories  returning, 

Bid  sweeter,  holier  hopes  transfigure  them ! 
Heart,  hear,  oh,  hear! 

Be  still,  my  soul,  nor  move  with  grief  consuming 
Thy  palsied  hours.     See  how  e'en  at  thy  feet 

In  pregnant  woods  the  violets  now  are  blooming, 
Exhaling  for  thy  senses  fragrance  sweet. 
Be  still,  my  soul ! 


50 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


jj^dreamy  haze  hangs  o'er  the  quiet  fields; 
It  is  October's  first  still  afternoon, 
And  sweet  oblivion  as  of  a  swoon 
Pervades  her  senses.     Earth  to  silence  yields, 
After  the  turmoil  of  another  year, 
Labor  and  care  and  restlessness  of  pain. 
Now  peace  is  come,  and  all  her  beauteous  train 
Fills  joyously  the  golden  atmosphere. 

Such  season  makes  within  the  anxious  heart 
Some  blest  Lethean  sense  of  sorrow  past, 

And  bitter  tears  that  nevermore  will  rise. 
The  mind  that  feels  cannot  but  form  a  part 

Of  nature's  calm.     Would  it  might  always  last — 
This  revery  divine  'neath  cloudless  skies. 


52 


[ROM  the  quiet  Autumn  fields  returning  I  come     The 

•  T*  *  I 

to  thee,  loved  Eidolon,  bearing  fresh  incense 
from  a  heart  o'erfull  of  sorrow,  whose  deepest 
comfort  is  in  silent  communing  with  thy  im- 
prisoned spirit.  The  sunlit  clouds  that  floated 
majestically  o'er  me;  the  Indian-summer  air  transfusing 
the  still  landscape  with  tender  melancholy;  the  lingering 
wildflowers  loth  to  go  unto  their  long,  long  sleep;  the 
brooklet  singing  merrily  beneath  the  elders;  yes,  every 
feature  of  the  scene  and  hour  called  back  to  me  the  image 
of  the  Beautiful  inspired  in  thee.  Thou  art  become  a 
personal  shape  and  inspiration,  lovely  One.  Thy  hand  in 
fancy  leads  me  on  from  bower  to  bower  of  sweet  thoughts. 
Thy  face  is  beaming  alway  before  me,  and  thy  calm  look, 
just  tinged  with  pensive  sadness  as  thou  seest  the  folly 
and  purblindness  of  mortals,  grows  dearer  and  more  benig- 
nant as  it  appears  before  imagination's  longing  gaze.  I 
know  thou  art  but  humble  clay,  and  all  thy  wondrous 
beauty  but  reflects  the  ethereal  thought  of  him  who  moulded 
thee,  and  that  chaste  mind  was  but  an  emanation  of  Him 
whose  holiest  name  is  Love.  What  matters  it  that  separate 
ages  strive  to  name  Creation's  Lord  ?  , 

But  ever,  with  the  splendor  of  art  that  called  thee  into 
being,  thy  chaste  features  assume  a  more  human  guise. 
Thou  art  no  longer  formed  of  clay  but  wrought  divinely, •' 
as  if  from  morning  skies  had  floated  unto  earth  the  vision 
all  complete.  Well  may  that  happy  sculptor  have  kissed 
thy  image  in  the  very  ecstasy  of  loving  reverence.  Well 
may  he  who  first  beheld  thee  liberated  from  thy  earthen 
crypt  have  stood  spell-bound  before  thy  beauteous  form, 
and  trembled  lest  his  hand  should  mar  thy  imperial  love- 
liness. And  gentle  centuries  have  spared  thee  so.  And 
shall  the  wondering  child  of  today  not  mingle  his  homage 
with  theirs? 


53 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


HOU  knowest,  Lord,  that  I  have  called  to  thee 
At  morn  and  even,  laying  my  poor  heart 
Low  at  Thy  footstool.     Evermore  thou  art 
To  me  a  living  light.     Thy  grace  I  see 
In  every  thought  and  feeling.     Can  it  be, 
Spirit  of  Good,  that  thou  and  I  must  part? 
Oh,  from  my  eyes  tears  of  repentance  start 
Unheeded  by  Thy  wondrous  charity. 

Wilt  thou  forsake  me  now  when  darker  still, 

And  fainter  Thy  pathway  glimmers  in  the  night 

Of  woe,  through  depths  of  sorrow  none  can  tell  ? 
Dost  thou  refuse  Thy  goodness  to  fulfill, 
The  wrongs  of  nature  fondly  to  requite, 
And  whisper  to  my  spirit,  "All  is  well?" 


54 


,  all  my  meditation  is  of  that  Love  Immortal  The 
of  which  thou  standest  the  sweetest  symbol,  Travail 
Aphrodite.  There  is  no  other  thought  which 
can  so  hold  empire  in  my  heart  of  heart,  no 
face  like  thine  to  cheer,  no  presence  like  thine 
own  to  charm  away  the  lurking  demon  of  despair.  Whilst 
thou  livest  I  shall  live;  when  thou  smilest  I  shall  smile, 
even  amid  sorrows  and  this  isolation  worse  than  death. 
Storms  and  darkness  gather  about  me,  the  light  of  day  is 
hidden  and  thick  forebodings  crush  the  fair  flower  that  in 
my  soul  is  struggling  upward  towards  the  pure  sunshine 
of  a  more  exalted  life.  And  yet  I  know  that  God  surely  will 
one  day  close  this  tired  pilgrimage,  roll  back  the  gloom, 
and  bid  a  brighter  dawn  awaken  every  dreaming  joy. 
There  is  no  twilight  shadow  on  thy  brow,  Beloved  One;  no 
lightnings  of  passion  have  fallen  upon  thy  radiant  head  as 
on  my  own,  to  clear  the  soul's  atmosphere  and  bend 
above  me  the  blessed  bow  of  peace.  Thou  from  thy  birth 
hast  stood  godlike  and  glorious;  no  solemn  vestiture  of  sin 
hath  ever  veiled  thy  loveliness;  but  Arcady  hath  known 
thy  infant  tread,  and  murmuring  groves  and  glancing 
waters  and  many  an  ivy-wreathed  fane  have  witnessed 
the  rapturous  worship  of  earth's  children  as  they  called  to 
thee  to  bless  their  happy  hours.  Age  shall  revere  and 
nature  shelter  thee,  O  Beautiful  One !  Thy  look  of  love  can- 
not be  changed  by  time.  Fresher  grace  shall  invest  thy 
virgin  form,  and  tenderer  lovelight  haunt  thy  noble  features, 
as  men  learn  to  know  thou  art  the  uttered  emblem  of  their 
loftiest,  gentlest  aspirations. 


55 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


RO'  gardens  fair  I  roamed  and  saw  the  earth 
Break  in  a  million  blooms;  in  regal  state 
Each  on  its  dewy  throne  triumphant  sate, 
And  thro'  those  faery  aisles  I  caught  the  mirth 
Of  palace-halls.   Of  wealth  there  was  no  dearth, 
For  gold  and  diamonds  did  captivate 
The  heart  of  him  who  wandered  all  elate, 
With  soft  imaginings  which  gave  new  birth. 

To  thoughts  ne'er  felt  before.     Yet  was  I  glad, 
And  with  a  weight  of  ecstasy  I  passed 

To  a  green  meadow  set  with  humble  gems, 
And  there  beside  a  rivulet  that  made 
Low  music  at  my  feet  I  found  at  last 
This  violet,  fairer  than  all  diadems. 


56 


IKE  a  tired  prodigal  I  return  to  thee,  sweet  The 
Aphrodite.  How  many  hours  I  have  spent  in  Travail 
weary  watchings  since  last  I  spoke  with  thee; 
how  many  careful  thoughts  have  oppressed  me, 
how  many  strange  faces  have  I  stared  upon! 
And  this  worried  ant-hill,  the  world  of  bargaining  and 
money-changers,  seemed  to  me  never  so  inane.  Great 
indeed  is  Allah,  yet  in  these  crowded  streets  there  rides  a 
greater  than  he,  whose  name  is  Mammon.  Gold  and  silver 
glitter  upon  his  vestments;  precious  jewels  sparkle  upon 
his  breast;  and  tender  hearts  are  the  pavement  for  his 
chariot-wheels.  Yet  in  his  countenance  is  naught  that 
wakens  human  love:  his  Juggernaut-car  passes  amid  the 
execrations  of  mankind,  and  his  face  is  low  and  brutal,  like 
Caligula's.  One  simple  deed  of  kindness  eclipses  all  the 
splendor  of  his  reign;  one  word  of  pity  shines  beside  the 
awful  gloom  that  shrouds  his  triumph.  So  sad  a  retinue 
the  world  hath  never  seen:  potsherds  bewildered  with  his 
contemptuous  largesse,  ignorance  and  vulgar  ambition  rid- 
ing in  his  train  with  poor  obsequious  smiles  and  lip-servility, 
godly  natures  now  impoverished  by  wealth  and  luxury, 
palms  that  should  be  open,  long  since  closed  in  savage  greed, 
and  lust  and  envy  and  clod-hearted  dispraise  and  treachery, 
all  pressing  forward  to  partake  of  his  accursed  ease.  Se- 
renely and  above  them  all  thou  standest,  Beautiful  One. 
Thy  look  of  love  no  wealth  can  possess.  Thou  art  the 
heritage  alike  of  king  and  beggar,  and  looking  up  to  thee, 
thou  loveliest  child  of  humanity,  the  loneliest  Magdalen, 
the  vilest  wretch  whom  generations  of  sin  and  misery  and 
penury  and  mocking  fate  have  combined  to  dishonor,  may 
feel  some  quickening  throb,  some  noble  impulse  of  the 
divine  deep  hid  beneath  the  wreck  of  mortal  passion. 
Truly  thou  shouldst  look  in  upon  the  market-place  each 
day,  that  men  might  pause  and  be  confounded  with  thy 
deathless  beauty. 


57 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


pure,  sweet  face,  with  eyes  of  tender  blue, 

In  whose  clear  depths  the  light  of  stainless 

thought 

Beams  tranquilly;  cheeks  in  whose  delicate  hue 
Lingers  God's   impress:   brow  serenely 
wrought, 
From  which  the  pale  brown  hair  is  softly  drawn ; 

And  lips  that  ope  in  music  that  doth  dwell 
On  the  charmed  silence  like  a  breath  of  dawn 
Haunting  the  chambers  of  an  ocean  shell: 

A  brave,  lithe  form,  replete  with  modesty, 

Moving  mid  men  with  an  unconscious  grace, 
As  if  her  soul  knew  not,  with  bended  knee, 
In  secret,  all  must  look  upon  that  face — 

Such  have  I  glimpsed  in  visions,  yet  'twould  seem 
That  fancy  could  not  frame  so  bright  a  dream. 


58 


lETTER  forget  the  tender  dream,  yes,  close  in  The 
reverent  tears  the  brightest  page  revealed  to 
mortal  eyes  and  wear  away  a  life  in  solitude 
and  pain,  than  to  descend  to  levels  lower  than 
the  spirit's  hope  and  prophesy.  There  is  a  love 
that  singeth  aloud  at  noonday,  leers  at  us  as  we  pass  and 
with  outstretched  arms  welcomes  us  to  its  palpitating 
bosom  as  if  'twould  calm  our  longing  quest;  warm  and  eager 
are  its  kisses;  its  fireside  rings  with  joy  and  laughter;  and 
many  friendly  tokens  doth  its  hand  bestow  to  bring  us 
lethe  and  repose.  Poor  pitiful  thing.  It  knows  not  that 
its  thought  and  life  are  envenomed,  its  paltry  artifices 
doomed  to  an  ephemeral  triumph,  and  that  in  the  sweet, 
pure  light  of  morning  all  its  painted  splendor  shall  be  wan 
and  wretched  indeed.  .  .  .  There  is  a  love  which  greets 
the  dawn  with  eyes  of  brightness  and  looks  of  grateful 
recognition  as  the  day-star  illumines  hill  and  vale.  Its 
golden  tresses  are  soiled  by  no  wanton  touch,  its  smile  is 
clear  as  morning  light,  its  happy  matin  unsullied  and  serene. 
For  a  clasp  of  its  true  arms  man  might  well  surrender  every 
other  earthly  joy;  and  to  sit  by  the  way  and  listen  to  the 
music  of  its  call  and  perchance  feel  one  breath  of  its  lily 
soul  wafted  anear  might  fill  our  hearts  with  perennial  per- 
fume. This  is  thy  child,  my  Aphrodite;  this  is  thy 
chosen  and  beloved  daughter,  whose  glances  fall  like  star- 
beams  o'er  my  lonely  way  and  cheer  and  bless  this  mid- 
night toil  and  anguish.  This  only  will  I  love  and  cherish, 
and  if  that  worshipful  one  perceives  me  not,  hears  not  the 
tremulous  adoration  of  my  sigh,  nor  turns  as  'twere  to  mark 
the  rustle  of  a  woodbird,  still  will  I  make  her  heart  my 
shrine,  nor  stoop  to  aught  less  pure  and  beautiful. 
O  guard  me  still,  my  Eidolon,  my  Aphrodite ! 
When  passion's  wraith  and  madness  darkle  round  me 
O  let  my  feet  through  pleasant  flowery  pathways 
Thy  footprints  follow. 

All,  all  is  gone  save  thee,  my  Aphrodite : 
Sweet  loves  of  morning,  passion's  heat  at  noonday; 
Now  let  thy  hand  in  tender  pity  lead  me 
Into  life's  gloaming. 
59 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


HE  is  not  here,  not  here! — give  o'er  thy  quest 
Thou  passionate  heart,  to  joy  and   hope 

unknown ; 

She  is  not  here,  and  thou  must  go  alone 
Into  the  silent  land ;  thy  life  opprest 
With  care  and  sorrow,  nevermore  caressed 
By  those  fond  arms,  or  by  that  living  tone 
Touched  to  glad  tears.     Thy  day  on  earth  is  gone — 
That  dream  divine  that  hath  thy  fancy  blest. 

What  then  remains  ?    Ah,  tender  as  a  rose 
Laid  on  an  infant's  bier  by  thy  farewell, 
And  as  its  perfume  be  thy  prayer  to  God 

That  o'er  thy  pain  thy  evening  light  shall  close 
In  quiet  splendor,  as  o'er  one  who  trod 

Patient  and  wise  the  depths  of  saddest  hell. 


60 


[Aphrodite,  sweet  mother  of  a  million  loves, 
what  burden  falls  upon  my  weary  heart 
recalling  that  which  I  have  seen  this  day!  As 
m  a  ^ream  I  watched  the  happy  glances  of  thy 
children  to  whose  joyous  eyes  thy  face  had  been 
revealed.  I  marked  each  delicate  emotion,  I  heard  the 
rippling  laughter  breaking  from  their  gladness,  I  caught  un- 
seen each  tender  tribute  unto  thee — all  was  divine,  and 
turning  to  my  wretchedness  and  pain  I  asked,  "  Why,  deso- 
late spirit,  to  whose  ear  the  voice  of  love  is  heavenly  music, 
whose  thoughts  are  all  of  gentleness  and  love,  whose  purest 
hours  are  those  which  record  some  recollection  of  human 
sympathy,  why  wear  away  thy  years  with  fruitless  long- 
ing?" This  is  not  earth  thou  seest  through  thy  tears. 
Oh  no,  these  loving  eyes  look  not  upon  the  scenes  familiar 
to  thine  own;  but  from  some  brighter  world,  not  here,  my 
heart;  this  band  of  happy  immortals  has  wandered,  to 
revel  for  a  while  amid  the  gardens  once  frequented  by  them 
and  now  grown  dearer  with  the  lapse  of  time.  Thou  hast 
not  to  do  with  them,  look  on  their  sunny  loves  and  say  if 
aught  in  thee  may  claim  kinship  with  their  joy.  For  a 
brief  hour  thou  wast  once  illumined  by  their  sun  of  love. 
Now  all  is  changed.  They  have  passed  onward  to  celestial 
regions,  while  thy  feet  still  tarry  here  to  trace  the  lingering 
tokens  of  their  presence,  only  alone,  ever  alone,  nor  can  all 
thy  passionate  desire  summon  to  thee  one  touch  of  their 
loving  hands,  one  accent  of  affection  from  their  unheeding 
hearts.  Eternity  may  not  vouchsafe  to  thee  a  joy  like 
theirs  yet  that  eternity  is  also  thine,  and  thy  caressing 
thoughts  are  not  less  hallowed  because  nourished  amid  the 
waste  of  isolation,  and  fed  by  dews  of  longing  tears. 

Lo,  in  this  solitude  I  am  with  thee, 
The  world  seeing  not,  and  all  my  sacred  passion 
Laid  at  thy  feet  in  agony  of  longing, 
Mute  Aphrodite. 


61 


The  Look  thou  in  pity  on  this  desolation, 

Travail  And  smile  on  me  that  I  may  bear  my  burden 

Bravely  and  true,  and  rise  o'er  every  sorrow 
Soul  Tm  Death's  release. 


62 


EFORE  a  cliff  of  adamant  I  stand, 

Behind  me  night  and  poverty  and  shame ; 
Full  well  I  know  that  I  can  only  claim 
What  I  hew  out  alone  with  my  right  hand. 
Fate,  fortune,  chance,  I  cannot  understand; 
Their  influence  is  powerless  to  tame 
My  steadfast  will,  their  kiss  or  blow  the  same; 
I  will  achieve  what  I  myself  have  planned. 

Do  angels  smile  on  me  ?     I  see  them  not, 
Albeit  I  hear  the  rustle  of  their  wings. 

My  eyes  are  filled  with  tears  of  bitter  pain, 
The  memory  of  my  love  is  ne'er  forgot ; 
Yet  over  all  my  spirit  soars  and  sings 

Dreaming  one  day  it  shall  be  free  again. 


64 


!UT  death  doth  tarry  and  the  way  before  me  The 
leads  through  countless  sorrows  and  amid  waste 
places  where  I  shall  find  no  rest  save  in  the 
memory  of  thee,  O  Aphrodite.  Would  but  one 
loving  heart  might  whisper  peace,  all  earth's 
gladness  seems  so  far  away.  And  ever  tenderer  beam  the 
fires  of  higher  passion  in  my  bosom,  ever  dearer  grows  the 
music  of  an  imagined  voice  and  the  pressure  of  one  loving 
hand.  Heaven  and  Earth  repeat  the  everlasting  song  of 
Love ;  the  river  lisps  its  story  and  the  bending  willows  chant 
the  name  of  one  whose  footfall  ne'er  shall  echo  in  my 
listening  ear. 

O  hearken  now  my  Beautiful,  my  Aphrodite ! 
See  where  thy  little  Love-Boy  pierced  my  bosom, 
Whose  arrow  deep  into  my  heart's  blood  sinking 
Must  slay  me  slowly. 

Yet  draw  not,  Mother,  lest  a  sudden  pathos 
Should  follow  with  life's  current  swift  outgushing 
And  I  should  be  as  senseless  stone,  nor  hear  thee 

Even  in  sadness. 

O  Aphrodite,  then  let  my  death  be  to  thee 
The  sacrifice  most  loyal  I  can  offer, 
And  o'er  my  dust  the  stranger  pause  and  murmur: 

Siste  viator. 

Joyful  I  hear  the  agony  and  longing, 
Since  thou  art  here  to  watch  and  weep  above  me, 
And  in  my  dreams  thy  loving  eyes'  sweet  vigils 

Shall  guard  and  bless  me. 


65 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


HE  is  not  here,  not  here. 

Through  many  towns,  by  many  landscapes  fair, 
I  wander,  and  a  phantom  of  despair 
Lies  on  my  wretched  heart, 
And  tears  of  longing  start. 
To  think  she  is  not  here. 

She  is  not  here,  not  here. 
O  night  of  pain,  wherein  no  star-beam  dwells ! 
O  tide  of  grief  that  in  my  bosom  swells ! 
Give  back  again  to  me 
The  joys  that  cannot  be 

While  she's  not  here,  not  here. 

She  is  not  here,  not  here; 
And  birds  are  singing,  and  the  air  is  sweet, 
And  almost  I  can  fancy  that  her  feet 
Bear  to  my  listening  soul 
The  bliss  that  o'er  it  stole 

When  she,  my  love  was  here. 

She  is  not  here,  not  here; 
And  I  must  lay  aside  my  staff  and  shoon 
And  by  my  sodden  hearth-stone  sit  and  croon, 
Unanswered  and  unloved, 
The  songs  her  spirit  moved 
When  she,  my  life,  was  here. 


66 


HERE  is  but  one  loving  soul  to  waken  mine,  O  The 
Aphrodite.  There  is  but  one  hand  to  lead,  one 
loving  voice  to  comfort  and  bid  me  rejoice. 
j§  Her  have  I  sought  so  long  amid  earth's  chil- 
dren. And  still  I  find  her  not,  and  evermore 
I  creep  into  the  silent  chapel  of  my  tender  thoughts,  and 
there  before  thy  altar  weep  away  my  lonely  heart  to  thee. 
O  Beautiful  One!  Canst  thou  not  vouchsafe  unto  thy 
votary  one  little  hour  of  rest?  In  all  this  wealth  of  loving 
kindness  must  I  forever  know  only  the  friendly  touch  and 
words  of  those  who  cannot  see  the  spirit  that  sighs  for  its 
own  and  will  not  be  comforted?  And  thou,  sweet  Death, 
why  hast  thou  turned  away  thy  gentle  face?  I  scent  thy 
perfumed  footsteps  near;  thy  fingers  now  are  twined  within 
mine  own;  thy  soft  breath  kisses  my  brow;  and  above  all 
mortal  song  floats  thy  clear  chant  soothing  my  senses 
with  a  nameless  calm;  yet  thou  lovest  me  not  enough  to 
dwell  with  me  and  fare  unto  the  unknown  land.  If  there 
be  death  in  life,  surely  there  shall  be  life  in  death  when  the 
long  agony  of  isolation  hath  passed  away. 

She  is  not  here,  not  here. 
I  see  the  asters  nodding  where  she  passed, 
And  all  the  woodland  smiles  as  tho'  her  face 
Had  wakened  it  to  joy,  yet  she  is  gone. 

She  is  not  here,  not  here. 
O  Night  and  Death,  fold  me  away  from  earth, 
Lest  these  still  tears  should  touch  some  human  heart 
Which  knowing  all  would  break  as  mine  has  broken ! 


67 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


cannot  banish  from  my  thoughts  the  hope 

That  thou  wilt  love  me,  though  so  oft  hath 

Love 
Lured  me  with  smiles  only  to  mock  and 

prove 

More  bitter  for  her  kiss.     The  weary  slope 
O'er  which  I  climb  no  vista  e'er  doth  ope, 

Like  the  sweet  picture  in  which  thou  dost  move 
Beside  my  lonely  life,  bending  above 
The  griefs  and  darkling  years  with  which  I  cope. 

Now  in  this  fading  light  I  helpless  stand 

Before  thy  face,  longing  to  follow  thee, 
To  take  within  my  own  thy  loving  hand 

And  in  its  tender  clasp  be  always  free, 
While  a  new  glory  lights  the  beauteous  land 

That  still  is  folded  in  obscurity. 


68 


IS  it  a  dream  caught  from  some  former  life  and  The 
wrought  into  this  longing  existence?  Have  Travail 
these  earthly  aisles  no  answer  for  my  trembling 
prayer?  In  bitter  drops  my  soul  is  melted  at 
the  thought  that  here,  where  Beauty  hath 
alighted,  no  token  of  love  shall  wake  the  living  heart  and 
bear  me  onward  and  upward  into  regions  of  the  blest. 
What  matters  it  that  in  some  long  hereafter  all  this  mighty 
bereavement  may  be  atoned,  and  children  clasp  me,  and 
loving  voices  welcome  home  from  daily  toil  their  tired 
friend  and  father?  Oh,  for  one  day  of  that  sweet  fulfil- 
ment, one  day  of  liberty  and  hope,  that  I  might  feel  the 
fullest  harmony  of  life  and  thought  and  deed.  Backward 
I  turn  in  vain  to  find  the  footsteps  of  her  who  in  the  memory 
of  these  desolate  years  thrilled  my  heart  with  rapture. 
Never  again.  I  search  and  find  her  not — the  darling  image 
conjured  by  imagination  to  lend  experience  all  that  can 
vivify  and  hallow  it,  without  which  nothingness  and  insen- 
sibility are  the  sum  of  nature's  dower.  There  is  a  peace 
I  know  that  comes  in  twilight  hours,  when  calm  and  pas- 
sionless the  spirit  of  man  looks  from  its  prison-home  and 
joins  in  earth's  vespers,  mingling  with  the  first  forest 
hymn,  the  lowly  outpourings  of  its  resignation  and  faith. 
Yet  even  in  this  holy  interval,  high  o'er  the  kneeling  world 
hangs  thy  fair  cresset,  Aphrodite,  and  sweeter  than  all 
other  beams,  more  beautiful  than  sunset  tints  or  purpled 
hills  or  darkling  flow  of  streamlet,  shines  thy  glorious  lamp 
of  love  to  guide  our  thoughts  and  feet  to  thee.  Perchance 
the  blessed  vision  framed  by  fancy  may  be  lovelier  than 
the  choicest  gift  it  is  in  thy  power  to  bestow,  but  oh,  how 
can  philosophy,  which  hath  never  seen  with  mortal  eyes, 
gainsay  the  truth  to  which  mankind  bears  testimony?  Is 
it  not  true  that  happiness  hath  been  and  is  and  shall  be 
while  thou  reignest,  sovereign  of  our  holiest  thoughts  ? 


69 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


,  thou  earnest  to  life's  great  feast 
In  sable  shroud,  masking  thy  radiant  face 
And  seeming,  to  our  senses,  to  efface 
joy  and  hope ;  yet  as  the  tinted  east 
Oft  veils  the  sun,  and  we  perceive  the  least 
At  happy  morn,  when  suddenly  her  grace 
Appears  and  smiles.     So  is  thy  hidden  face. 
Like  her  we'll  welcome  thee,  thou  kingly  guest. 

Thou  art  the  sovereign  of  our  being ;  all 

We  think  or  feel  is  known  to  thee,  and  when 

We  most  would  chide,  then  suddenly  thy  smile 
Illumes  our  lot,  and  earthly  pleasures  pall 
Before  thy  majesty:  so  stay  a  while; 

We  bow  before  thee,  kindest  friend  of  men. 


70 


selfish  hearts  I  come  to  thee,  my  Aphro- 
dite.  From  thanklessness  and  low  ambitions,  Travail 
from  company  with  those  who  would  sacrifice  of  a 
to  the  Moloch  of  personal  interest,  the  most 
gentle  and  sacred  feelings  that  can  sway  a 
human  soul.  Sordid  and  unhappy  indeed  is  the  philosophy 
and  success  of  the  world.  But  now,  as  one  who  leaving  a 
foul  dungeon  emerges  into  the  sweet  light  of  day,  I  stand 
once  more  in  thy  beloved  presence,  permeated  with  the 
quiet  thoughts  thou  ever  dost  inspire,  warmed  and  revived 
by  the  flame  enkindled  in  thy  chaste  bosom — the  memory 
of  thee  being  always  Lethe  to  thy  hapless  child.  When,  oh, 
when,  shall  I  abide  with  thee  and  be  at  rest?  So  many 
days  have  gone  since  last  I  lifted  my  voice  to  thee,  though 
morn  and  even  thou  hast  heard  the  prayer  breathed  unto 
thee,  when  with  slow  steps  I  bade  farewell  or  greeted  thee 
returning  from  the  dull  routine  of  toil's  apprenticeship. 
What  glowing  thoughts  have  moved  thy  fancy  in  this 
speechless  interval?  What  wonders  hast  thou  seen  with 
those  far-seeing  eyes?  Is  barter  no  more  in  Sirius?  Have 
the  Pleiads  seen  in  their  encircling  orbs  no  baseness  and 
treachery  and  guile?  Have  the  loves  of  Mars  and  Jupiter 
gone  well,  and  is  there  then,  in  truth,  beyond  this  sphere 
some  sunlit  Arcady,  which  to  earth's  children  is  but  an 
enchantment  of  fabled  song  and  story?  Are  these  bright- 
winged  imaginings  one  day  to  take  flight  thither,  and  shall 
all  this  load  of  care  be  laid  with  our  tired  dust  ?  O  Beauti- 
ful One!  I  cannot  dream  but  that  the  light  in  thy  celestial 
eyes  reflects  some  happiness  beyond  our  ken.  Tell  me  what 
thou  hast  seen,  thou  glorious  soul,  looking  into  the  blue 
ether  above  us;  and  if  one  ray  of  that  ethereal  fire  that 
burns  within  thy  loving  heart  may  fall  upon  thy  patient 
votary,  oh,  shed  its  kindling  warmth  upon  this  desolate, 
heart-broken  life,  to  comfort  and  illumine. 


71 


H,  could  I  find  expression  for  the  pain 

That  moves  my  heart,  the  world  would  weep 

to  know 

How  desolate  have  been  my  years  of  woe, 
And  turn  to  me  in  pity;  but  in  vain 
I  strive  to  speak,  anguish  and  tears  restrain 
The  music  of  my  song,  and  choke  the  flow 
Of  deeper  utterance,  while  sorrows  grow 
With  silence  burning  ever  in  my  brain. 

Yet  still  'tis  mine  to  dream  that  I  shall  speak 
In  the  long  future,  and  that  men  shall  rise 

And  shelter  me  and  soothe  with  tenderest  tears. 
Then  an  eternal  song  shall  sweetly  break 
From  my  cold  lips  and  flow  in  harmonies, 

Echoing  ever  through  the  trembling  spheres. 


72 


[BEAUTIFUL  ONE.  With  what  unspeakable  The 
despair  I  come  once  more  to  thee.  Hear  thou  Travail 
the  tremulous  sobbings  of  my  burdened  spirit; 
^°°k  *hou  m  vast  compassion  on  the  anguish 
I  have  borne  and  still  must  bear  in  fealty  unto 
thee  and  thy  divine  behest.  For  none  is  there  I  worship 
like  to  thee;  no  face  so  fair,  no  form  so  beautiful  as  that 
which  man  has  crowned  and  called  Love.  How  infinite 
is  the  abyss  that  stretches  between  me  and  thy  smile. 
How  unutterable  the  longing  in  my  heart  as  I  look  into  the 
dying  sunset  where  hangs  thy  silver  cresset,  and  hear  ever- 
more the  closing  of  thy  temple's  portals,  like  a  funeral 
knell  echoing  amid  the  ghostly  chambers  of  my  soul.  Ah 
me,  and  shall  this  anxious  life  go  down  in  pain  ?  Are  these 
faint  tints  of  morning  only  the  feverish  recollection  of  a 
dawn  that  long  has  passed  and  will  not  break  again  ?  Thy 
countenance  is  full  of  light,  Beloved  One.  Thine  eyes  see 
not  the  tears  I  pour  for  thy  sweet  recognition — I  am  as 
dead  before  thee,  and  this  passionate  zeal  seems  wasted  in 
thy  service.  Oh  deign  to  bend  thy  royal  glance  upon  this 
solitude.  Call  to  her  whose  spirit  somewhere  wanders 
seeking  my  own,  and  bid  her  hasten  ere  the  fountain  of 
these  loving  thoughts  be  congealed  by  sorrow  that  no 
human  heart  can  long  endure.  Bid  thy  swift  Love-Boy 
whisper  to  her  ear  the  tender  pathos  of  my  spirit's  history; 
touch  her  cold  lips  and  say  it  is  the  kiss  of  him  whose  feet 
have  followed  after  hers  in  all  these  bitter  years,  and  tell 
her  when  he  lies  fainting  by  the  wayside,  that  one  little 
word  spoken  ere  it  be  too  late  may  wake  again  the  life  that 
now  is  dying,  O  Beautiful,  my  Aphrodite,  hear  my  prayer! 


73 


The 
Travail 
of  a 
Soul 


OVER  with  wildwood  blooms  this  quiet  grave, 

O  Mother  Nature !     Let  thy  tears  of  dew 
Be  shed  above  my  heart's  dead  dream,  O  wave 

Thy  fragrant  boughs  above  me  and  renew 
Each  morn  thy  sweet  caress!     My  love  is  laid 
In  snowy  robes,  and  light  of  heaven  scarce  gone 
Beneath  the  solemn  sanctuary  of  thy  shade — 
Love,  spent  with  weary  wanderings,  alone. 

O  wake  me  not  again,  Mother  Divine ! 

But  o'er  this  sleep  the  mantle  of  thy  care 

Fold  with  meek  pity,  as  for  one  who  died, 
Hearing  forever  in  the  haunted  air 

Celestial  voices,  yet  whom  Fate  denied 
One  little  hour  of  love,  save  only  thine. 


74 


more,  and  perchance  for  the  last  time,  I 
come  to  thee,  my  Aphrodite.  Be  thou  my 
witness  then  how  loyal  is  my  heart  to  thee, 
which  in  the  sorrow  of  this  lonely  room  hath 
answered  to  the  inspiration  of  thy  glorious  pres- 
ence. O  guardian  of  my  thoughts,  be  thou  my  comforter! 
In  this  new  year  watch  ever  lest  the  faintest  evil 
desecrate  thy  brooding  loveliness,  or  sentiment  unkindly 
belie  the  holier  life  awakened  in  thy  child.  Thou  canst 
not  speak,  but  could  thy  voice  be  heard  among  the  hearts 
of  men  I  doubt  not  some  kindred  soul  would  shudder  and 
turn  pale,  then  look  on  me  in  pity,  knowing  the  infinite 
solitude  thou  only  dost  behold,  the  tragedy  that  under- 
neath this  mask  of  playfulness  works  ever  unseen  into  every 
woof  of  fortune  some  sombre  threads  of  utter  despair.  Oh, 
stay  not  thy  subtle  charm  till  every  gloomy  recollection 
be  exorcised,  every  misgiving  lulled  to  rest.  Lo,  Love,  I 
am  as  nothingness  without  thee:  yet  here  even  in  this 
hushed  retreat  my  face  is  turned  toward  that  light  which 
maketh  all  things  beautiful,  and  in  these  humble  studies 
there  is  peace.  Let  every  sorrow  hem  me  round;  let  all 
that  makes  the  spirit,  leap  in  splendor  from  the  clear  foun- 
tain where  God's  waters  flow;  let  even  thy  beloved  image 
be  no  more,  and  in  the  wintry  halls  of  this  sad  heart  sound 
never  again  the  aeolian  music  of  youth's  hope  and  prayer- 
still  will  I  soar  and  live  for  thee  and  thee  alone,  though 
every  tender  memory  of  thy  face  bring  tears  of  anguish  to 
these  tired  eyes,  and  every  thought  of  thy  long  vanished 
kiss  be  like  a  draught  of  bitterness  to  my  bereaved  fancy. 
But  thou,  sweet  Aphrodite,  shalt  remain,  thou  shalt  abide 
Love's  messenger — since  Love  herself  hath  fled — and  to- 
gether we  will  strew  violets  and  amaranth  upon  that  most 
gentle  grave,  and  with  dear  vigils  guard  her  sleep,  lest  even 
one  passionate  heartbreak  should  disturb  her  sacred  repose. 


75 


HE  loves" — "She  loves  me  not."     How  softly 

fall 

The  purple  petals  rent  from  beauty's  chain, 
Each  trembling  with  alternate  joy  and  pain; 
How  eloquently  tender  in  their  call 
Borne  from  the  heart  of  Nature !     None,  of  all 
Only  the  voice  supreme  doth  yet  remain. 
Speak,  oracle  of  heaven,  thy  fragrant  fane 
A  lover's  sweetest  secret  doth  enthrall. 

I  dare  not  breathe  the  words;  my  soul  is  faint 
With  depth  of  wild  emotion,  and  I  seem 

To  catch  a  strain  from  some  far  distant  sphere, 

A  glorious  music,  breaking  from  the  plaint 
Of  sorrowing  isolation  as  I  hear 
Over  the  fields,  "She  loves  me"  ringing  clear. 


76 


JT  last,  I  have  seen  the  precious  image  of  thy     The 
love,  O  Aphrodite,  clothed  in  grace  beyond  all     Travail 
human   art   to   imitate   or   aught  save  divine     of  a 
imagination   to   conceive.     I  saw  the  flowing 
hair  fall  softly  round  her  temples,  the  still,  pure 
eyes  shone  full  upon  me,  within  whose  secret  depths  the  fire 
of  dawning  passion  lay,  the  parted  mouth  breathed  forth 
its  silent  tale  of  love,  and  the  chaste  bosom  trembled  with 
unuttered  emotion.     So  innocent  and  lovely — what  hand, 
I  asked,  hath  shaped  this  faultless  mould  and  in  its  holy 
treasury  enshrined  a  living  soul,  more  beautiful  than  star 
of  summer  morning;  what  fancy  hath  conceived  aught  so 
heavenlike  and  fair,  so  full  of  innocent  joy,  so  delicately 
framed  that  thought  can  hardly  grasp  its  pure  ethereal 
loveliness  ? 

O  my  Beautiful  One,  My  Aphrodite,  can  it  be  true  that 
I  am  called  to  receive  the  tender  tribute  of  a  love  like  hers  ? 
Can  it  be  true  that  this  exquisite  soul  beats  in  sympathy 
with  my  own,  that  this  young  heart  unknown  to  guile 
yearns  unto  mine  with  all  the  devotion  of  love?  Away, 
away,  thou  speakest  to  me  of  that  which  I  have  not  found 
and  which  my  eyes  may  never  behold.  And  yet  the  sweet 
conviction  haunts  me  night  and  day.  Is  it  then  but  the 
fevered  dream  caught  from  the  void  of  suffering  and  despair? 
But  let  not  this  dream  be  blighted,  whose  radiance  is  the 
last  beam  of  sunlight  that  can  illumine  my  earthly  day. 
Oh  bring  my  darling  safely  to  my  breast  and  bid  her  lay 
her  arms  about  my  neck  and  nevermore  abandon  to  the 
terrors  of  despair  the  soul  that  lives  only  for  her,  whose 
only  worldly  peace  shall  be  the  consciousness  of  her  pure 
devotion. 

Too  true,  yet  oh,  I  would  not  have  it  pass, 
This  vision,  tho'  alas, 

It  soon  may  fade  away, 

Fade  like  a  star  into  the  blazing  day 
Of  life's  reality.     Hear,  hear,  I  pray, 
Spirit  of  endless  Good, 
Let  not  Love's  sun  go  down  upon  my  solitude. 

77 


The  She  comes.     How  soft  her  precious  footstep  falls 

Travail  Along  the  wintry  halls 

Wherein  my  days  have  past. 
She  comes!    And  now,  oh  Heaven,  I  feel  at  last 

Her  heart  to  this  cold  bosom  folded  fast. 
No,  no,  it  is  no  dream 
For  in  thy  eyes,  sweet  girl,  I  see  Love's  living  gleam. 


78 


Move  on  into  the  silence  of  the  past,  The 

Dim  phantoms  that  so  long  have  wandered  o'er  Travail 

The  morning  of  my  life.     Fate  has  recast 

The  broken  fragments  of  my  soul,  and  more 
Than  this  hour's  joy  I  cannot  ask.     O,  pour 

Thy  happy  song  unto  the  silver  stars, 
Thou  tearful  heart,  that  grief  unuttered  bore. 

A  breath  of  morning  comes  to  kiss  the  scars, 
And  Love  with  tender  hand  the  gates  of  heaven 

unbars. 


79 


2L£ 


